


geraniums, foxglove, meadowsweet, yellow carnations, & orange lilies

by thegreatestkatzby



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, flowershop au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-09 17:46:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7811323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatestkatzby/pseuds/thegreatestkatzby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stressed college students don't do well when their sleeping schedules are fucked with; John is definitely no exception. Pissed at his noisy housemate, John seeks petty floral revenge, but ends up stumbling on something a lot bigger (and a lot gayer).</p>
            </blockquote>





	geraniums, foxglove, meadowsweet, yellow carnations, & orange lilies

".. -  _ fuck _ \- .. -  _ shove up her ass _ \- ... -  _ manipulative bitch _ \- ... -  _ fucking gorgon _ \- ... -  _ tell you _ ..."

It. Keeps. Happening.

Your eyes burn holes into the dark ceiling. They also just plain burn, and you blink a few times, hard. Muffled shrieks - though still clear enough to get the gist of it,  _ of course _ \- besiege your consciousness.

It’s. Still. Dark out.

You smack around your bedside table until you find your phone, which you click on, squinting against the screen brightness. Through the fog of sleep and poor vision, you decipher the clock: 4:47 in the fucking a.m.

Translation: Too. Fucking. Early. For this.

Your groggy temper flares half-heartedly as you consider your options.

One, you could do what you usually do, which is to roll over, grumble to yourself, and fester in your bitterness, making sure to passive aggressively leave a particularly large amount of coffee grounds in the sink before heading out for the day. You never witness the fallout of these mind games, so it is an undeniably dissatisfying method of coping, but when you’re awake too early for your internship on too little sleep, it seems like a great way to channel your rage.

Two, you could go out onto the porch where the offending housemate was very loudly arguing with someone on the phone, as was his weekly habit (seriously, did he think that going out on the porch would stop people from hearing him? If anything, he had to be waking up the whole neighborhood, not just you, seething in your room) and give him what for, as your dad would say. This would lead to immediate results, though whether those results would be the desired peace and quiet, or the dreaded escalation of emotions that this particular roommate is so famous for, is a bit of a toss up. One you aren’t sure you want to gamble on.

Three… Well, the only other option you can think of is to fling yourself out of your second floor window -  _ that _ would get his attention, but would not necessarily stop him from screaming at your falling body. So you consider options one and two.

Another peek at your phone -- 4:52. You have to be up and about in a couple of hours. You squeeze your eyes tight for a moment, then open them with a huff, mind made up.

You slip on sweatpants and the first t-shirt you find on the floor, slap on your glasses, stumble into the pair of slippers your dad got you (“So you can walk with pride around your new house, like a true adult”), and smack your bed head into submission with the palm of your hand. With a steeling breath, you squeak open your door and step out into the hallway.

“I swear to GOD T.Z., I will MANGLE her SPINDLY LITTLE PINCERS and TWIST HER HORNS until she CRIES LUSUS, no matter HOW GREAT her rack is - that is NO FUCKING EXCUSE for how she’s been treating you, you deserve FUCKING BETTER --”

Ah. Perfect. You can now hear every word he says with distinct clarity. Irritation pumps through your veins, fueling your resolve as you gingerly descend the stairs, which creak loudly with every step.

“She has NO RIGHT to ANYONE ELSE’S SPACE - I GET IT, she’s led a real FUCKED UP LIFE full of FUCKERY of her own FUCKING CREATION but she can’t just TAKE from other people like it’s her FUCKING BIRTHRIGHT --”

You lean forward to peer through the windows. He’s pacing angrily on the porch, phone held up to his ear, one hand switching between violently pulling at his hair and gesturing wildly in front of him. You let loose another huff.

“No, YOU listen to ME - I’ve watched this BULLSHITTERY go on for WAY TOO FUCKING LONG --”

“Hey, uh, man,” you croak, crossing your arms in front of you, suddenly self conscious.  He keeps on shrieking.

“And I SWEAR TO GOD I’m prepared to KICK HER OUT FOR YOU if I have to --”

“Um…”

“I’m not afraid of her FAKE FUCKING SHTICK --”

“ _ Excuse me! _ ” He turns to you, eyes wide (yellow, with bright red irises - yeah, trolls are  _ weird _ ), mouth still mid-formulating a word. You wait for a second to see if he’s going to keep screaming, and when he remains quiet, you continue. “So, it’s, like, 5 am, and I need to get up in like two hours, and it’s a little hard to sleep with your, um, conversation.”

You wait some more.

He looks at you for a while longer, then turns away from you, returning to his phone. “Excuse me, T.Z., it seems my hivemate thinks this  _ conversation _ is not to his  _ tastes,  _ for his  _ delicate sensibilities _ -”

“Jesus, dude, is it so unreasonable to ask -” you retort, but he continues talking into his phone with a sarcastic and forcefully pointed delicacy,

“So I  _ guess _ I’ll have to leave you to your  _ abusive partner _ , because this  _ feather-footer _ cares more about his goddamn  _ beauty sleep _ \- (“Are you fucking serious?” you splutter) - so I’ll call you later to check in to make sure you’re  _ safe _ and  _ not traumatized for life.  _ Yeah, love you, bye,” his voice peters out at the end, and he hangs up, staring at his phone screen for a couple extra moments, before turning his dark scowl onto you. “Sorry to  _ disturb _ you,” he snaps.

“I’m not saying you can’t - you didn’t have to - dude,  _ for real? _ ” You’re flustered - you didn’t know the circumstance, but that doesn’t mean he has a pass to be as loud as he wants at all hours of the night! “I’m sorry to interrupt, but it’s pretty objectively  _ too goddamn early _ -”

“Early? Yeah it’s goddamn early! If my moirail calls me to talk about shit, I’m gonna  _ pick up anyway _ because I don’t  _ abandon my friends _ you  _ insensitive _ -”

“I don’t care! I’m sorry! You can take calls from - from whoever you want, but please! Please just keep your voice down!” You’re aware of your own raising voice but, well, who could blame you? You aren’t being unreasonable here! “Please,” you add, a little more sincerely, hopeful that a touch of desperation will inspire some empathy in the small gray ball of anger gritting his sharp teeth in front of you.

“If my best friend is in  _ danger _ ,” the troll says slowly and deliberately. “And I am doing what I can to keep her  _ safe.  _ Who are  _ you _ to deprive her of that?” His voice is steadily rising, gathering in viciousness as his anger snowballs through his tangent. “Do you understand what  _ danger _ means? Or do I have to spell it out to get through that thick human skull of yours? Did your human lusus never allow itty bitty wriggler anywhere near anything even remotely damaging? Is your head too soft to comprehend the words I am speaking to you right now?!  _ Are you too stupid to realize when a conversation is important, naive bulgeslurper?” _

All semblance of tiredness is thrown right out of your brain. “I’m not stupid,” you say quietly.

“What was that, bug-brain?”

“I said,” you repeat, a little louder through gritted teeth. “Don’t. Call. Me. Stupid.”

“Well then fucking act a little less dense, because --” But you’re not planning on letting him continue on his rant any longer. He’s hit a nerve, and you are  _ pissed _ .

“Look here, you motherfucking douchewad -  _ it is not your turn to speak right now! _ ” The snarl that erupts from you as the troll opens his mouth to retort surprises him enough to snap his jaw shut, wide-eyed. “I’ve tried to be nice. I’ve played some passive aggressive games, yeah, but I’ve done my best to respect that, hey, maybe, yeah! Something’s going on with my housemate! Maybe there’s something really huge going on, so interrupting his conversation would be rude. I’ve thought of that! I’ve definitely,  _ absolutely  _ fucking  _ thought of that! _ But you know what? I need some fucking peace and quiet too! I need my fucking sleep so I can fucking  _ do this internship that I need to complete my major which stresses me out enough as it is!  _ But hey, a few weeks of little sleep is nothing right?  _ Right?! No!  _ I’ve had  _ enough!  _ I am  _ exhausted,  _ and I am  _ done,  _ and I am  _ not fucking stupid!  _ So  _ please, would you keep your fucking whiny-ass voice down so that the rest of us can maybe catch a few z’s, instead of letting the entire house’s schedule revolve around your goddamn fucking mood swings -” _

“You piece of -” the troll immediately shrieks, expression mutinous.

Before you or him can get another word out, the front door crashes open and another one of your housemates steps out, her blond hair rumpled and lavender bathrobe wrapped around her torso, dark bags framing a vicious glare directed at both of you.

“John, Karkat - if you don’t shut up right this second I swear I will shove my crotcheting needles up your asses, and, trust me, the hooks won’t do you any favors in getting them out,” Rose growls.

You and Karkat exchange a look. You were both there when someone had broken Rose’s favorite mug during a party. Her threats were not to be taken lightly.

Both of you bow your heads, muttering apologies, but not without a few sideways stabbing glances. “Thanks so much,” she bites, and storms back into the house, leaving you with a grumbling troll on the dark porch.

Your entire body shakes as you head back inside, and does not subside as you go back upstairs to your room.

It certainly does not subside when you see the time is already 6:05 a.m. Rather than try to sleep while your pulse is still pounding, you take a very hot and angry shower, choking out curses the entire time.

When you emerge from the steamy bathroom, your temper has settled to a simmer. When you run into Karkat in the kitchen for your morning coffee, he calls you some convoluted insult under his breath and your fury returns full force.

Appetite spoiled, you stomp out the front door, slamming it behind you. You can get some fucking coffee in town.

After waiting for the bus for fifteen minutes with no sign of it coming around the corner, your powerful bad mood follows you all through your twenty minute walk into downtown. By the time you have your iced mocha latte in your hand, you still have forty five minutes to kill before you need to head towards campus for your internship.

Even as you sip at your cold treat to yourself, you find yourself still cursing Karkat under your breath for every yawn that climbs its way out of your lungs. You need your sleep, goddamn it! You get cranky! You understand that crises happen, but this shit with Karkat screaming into his phone at all hours of the night happens far too often for that to be an excuse. Plus, Karkat doesn’t need to be so loud! Isn’t he capable of lowering his voice like, two fucking notches?

_ He is probably out to get me, _ you decide sourly, taking another sip of your drink through the straw.  _ He’s doing this on purpose because he wants me to suffer, personally. _

Plus he hit a strong fucking nerve. You don’t like being called stupid.

You’re contemplating ways to get comeuppance as you trudge down a side street from the main plaza when you pass by the shop that strikes you with a hysterical - nay,  _ brilliant _ \- plan. Sleep deprived rage always does wonders for your pranking creativity! And boy, is he gonna get a real  _ kick _ out of this one!

Feeling slightly delirious on tired energy and the beginnings of a caffeine rush, you push open the glass door, and it tinkles gently to announce your arrival.

Stepping into the flower shop, you take a moment to admire the atmosphere; the wide range of colored petals and vibrant greens are a refreshing change from the hustle and bustle of the downtown streets. It smells vaguely leafy, with some sort of sweet tinge that reminds you of a sugary rose. The perfect breeding grounds... for revenge.

The memory of Rose, threatening certain painful death, pulls you out of your reverie and reinforces your determination.

You are going to do this, and it’s going to be the best fucking prank ever.

You stride right up to the counter, slap the countertop with a twenty dollar bill, causing the cashier  - a bored looking guy wearing gold rimmed aviators like a  _ total tool _ \- to look up from his phone, expression unchanged.

“How do I passive-aggressively say, ‘FUCK YOU’ in flower?” you spit out.

The cashier looks down at the counter at the bill still trapped underneath your palm, and then up to you. It’s hard to say what sort of expression he’s making, because of the aviators that, if it wasn’t clear,  _ he’s wearing indoors _ . He touches a knuckle to his chin in a parody of a thoughtful expression, still staring at you (probably) behind his sunglasses, and then after a long moment, grins and says,

“Gotcha.”

His voice has an immediate effect on you.

It has a southern twang and a low melodic undertone to it, but more than that, it strikes some sort of chord in you, buried deep under years and years of what now feel like distractions. Your cold thirst for vengeance drains out of you and puddles around your feet, and the adrenaline rush of fury floods into your head as something new.

While the florist turns away to move around the room, plucking flowers here and there and adding it to the bundle in his other hand, you drink in every detail of his appearance, now without your lens of rage.

His hair halos his head like a pale cloud, contrasting with his dark and sharply cut undercut, and freckles dot what you can see of his upper arms under his sleeves and make you think of dappled shade under trees. His arms and part of his neck are littered with faint nicks and scars, and you almost stop yourself from wondering about the scars you can’t see. The limbs themselves are lanky, but by no means awkward. He holds himself with a careful intentionality, as though every move is deliberate, even though he’s not exactly  _ graceful _ as he fumbles with bundles of flora.

When he turns towards you, holding a small garden of colors, you are struck by his soft features - or maybe that’s just his expression? or maybe you’re just smitten at first sight by this literal angel? - and you almost don’t catch it when he asks you, clearly biting back another grin, “So, uh… is there any baggage there you need to air out, or…..” He trails off for you to fill in the blank as he arranges his collection onto a counter behind the register.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you mumble, looking away to stop yourself from ogling his hands, which are distracting, for some reason - hands don’t usually do it for you, but his are weirdly enticing to watch.

Your own hands are fidgeting with the corners of the bill still on the counter. In your tunnel vision of righteousness you had slapped it down for dramatic effect, but now you feel your stomach curl in on itself at the thought of your theatrics.

He hums, clearly still trying not to laugh. You can’t stop yourself from feeling a twinge of annoyance. You are a prankster, but you are a sore loser. You don’t like being on the punchline end of a joke!

“Well whoever this is for is gonna get a helluva message, if they know flower language at all,” the angel/florist says lightly, laced with hints of chuckles, and you feel a surge of warmth and affection towards him. You want to hear him laugh - want to  _ make _ him laugh - more than anything.

“I will personally buy him a flower dictionary,” you respond in a low voice. For humor purposes. “So he can appreciate every single nuance of this message.” He’s grinning, full toothed, now. Your gut does a flip.

Oh, no.

“Dude, you’ll have to get some urban dictionary for flowers type shit, because this bouquet is full of real filthy, foul things,” he nearly cackles, and shit! His smile is infectious as hell!

One side of your mouth is being pulled upward by unseen forces. No! You are supposed to be righteously furious! Damn you, divine intervention, for sending this celestial force of nature! Everything about him is drawing you in, making it impossible for you to think of anything else.

Speaking of which, he’s still talking.

“Like, I hope you’re not sending this to anyone with a heart condition because they might get a heart attack just glancing at this sinful thing. Honestly I think I’ll need to baptise my hands a few times just to get the stench of hellfire out of my nails after this. Ain’t no way they’re letting me into God’s kingdom now, not with this crime against nature on my hands.” He waggles one particularly phallic shaped flower at you, and wow you’re glad you’re paying attention again because he’s smiling right at you. “Literally.”

He pauses. “I winked, but you couldn’t see it, on account of my shades. But now you know and can appreciate the effect of it in hindsight.”

Your bark of laughter takes even you by surprise. Angel-boy pouts a little but the look is somewhat ruined because he’s still half smiling. “Alright, whatever, yuk it up,” he sighs, snipping off ends of stems and moving around flowers to adjust the layers. “It ain’t easy being underappreciated for my comedic talents ‘round these parts.”

“‘Round  _ those _ parts, maybe,” you shoot back before you can think better of it, with a nod towards the phallic flowers in front of him.

Your heart leaps out of your throat a little too late to stop you from saying that why did you say that that was way too suggestive nopenopenope let the Earth swallow you whole right now --

The Angel raises an eyebrow. “Was that a dick joke?”

“Uh,” you utter. “... Yeah. It… it was.” Your face feels like it’s burning. Why did you come in here again? What made you think it was a good idea to come into this house of God with your blasphemer humor and devil-may-care  _ comedic timing _ …

Shit. You swear you had a thicker skin for comedy than this. What is wrong with you?

“Damn, without even asking for my father’s blessing,” he responds smoothly, though he drops the bundle of filler flowers he was holding. His arm shoots out to grab it from the floor and he’s patting the bouquet with a little more vigor now.

“Ha, ha,” you force out flatly. Your brain is still stalling from your utter lack of finesse or tact or literally anything that won’t make a goddamn fool out of you at half past seven in the goddamn morning. Jesus.

There’s an awkward silence that you’re cursing yourself for until the florist speaks again to give you a card for their delivery service.

_ Ha, yeah, _ you think distantly.  _ That way Karkat won’t even get the pleasure of yelling at me directly… _

Your righteous fury, so brightly burning earlier, has all but died out now, the florist having completely doused your being with his stupid goddamn accent and his stupid goddamn grin and stupid goddamn everything.

_ I’m an idiot.  _

You scribble your own address on the card, and on a tag you write,

****

“ _ for karkat the ever loud-mouthed - hope you’re allergic to flowers, dick! fuck you, - your biggest fan _ ”

****

and fold it up for the florist to attach it to the bouquet and put aside for the “hot piece of delivery ass” to bring to the house once his shift starts.

“Well, that’s gonna be twenty dollars exactly,” says the florist/angel/you really wish he was wearing a name tag so you wouldn’t have to call him these things in your head because you are getting embarrassed by yourself.

“Are you sure it covers like, tips, and everything, or,” your voice is quickly failing you as your nerves start to take over. Your eagerness to see him smiling is overtaken by the sharp spike of anxiety -  _ does he recognize me the way I recognize him? _ You feel exhausted.

“Yeah,” he says, and leans back against the back counter, one hand holding the edge behind him, the other holding a perspiring iced coffee, and he looks at you with a lopsided smile. “You’re good. The rest is on me. I hope the asshole gets what’s coming to him.”

You smile slowly and widely back at him. He slurps from the cup, but you see a flash of a smile just before he occupies himself with the straw.

“Yeah,” you turn towards the door. “Me too.”

You step out of the shop, are ten minutes late to your shift, and make it all the way until lunchtime before you realize it had been your drink, left forgotten on the counter, that the Angel had been slurping from on your way out.

**Author's Note:**

> based on [this](http://koscheiis.tumblr.com/post/145738369188/flower-shop-au) post!
> 
> also, imagine john listening to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vkOJ9uNj9EY) to get him hyped while he's mad. just... imagine it.


End file.
